


Trust

by naughtypixie



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: 4am fic, BDSM, Breathplay on steroids, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, M/M, MacLeod is actually observant and not a moron, MacLeod lived a little so somewhat ooc, Methos had good intentions no really, Snuff, Well ok they are immortals so somewhat safe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 09:57:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16659023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naughtypixie/pseuds/naughtypixie
Summary: Methos had good intentions.MacLeod decides to listen.Everyone is pretty sure that wasn't the lesson Methos had in mind, but hey.





	Trust

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [Teland](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland) and the Jack!
> 
> All other mistakes are mine, and my 4am brain's.

Methos guards his quirks the way a jealous lover guards his newly debauched virgin.

By now, he knows he should have gotten rid of most of them, but there are a few he’s selfishly held on to over the millennia.

The love of powerful and passionate men is one of them.

Methos curses himself once again for this self-indulgent weakness, even as he walks into the dojo.

Duncan MacLeod looks gorgeous as he moves through his katas, swinging his katana as if it was an extension of his body.

Originally Methos had planned to talk to him, but he knew the Scotsman responded better to lessons beaten into him than to words. Methos lets Adam’s face settle on his features as he bows and takes off his coat.

Time for some practical lessons.

“MacLeod-san, that Katana is a lovely piece of art, may I?” Methos knows asking for another immortal’s blade is a serious breach of etiquette, since it required the other immortal to either show his distrust and say no, or take a leap of faith and hand over their only means of survival to another who might want the opposite. MacLeod knows it too, judging by the darkening of his eyes.

“I washed my hands this morning.” Methos makes sure Adam’s mild manner and large sincere eyes are the only thing MacLeod can see. And he knew what MacLeod would do, the trusting fool.

Just as he expected, MacLeod hands him the blade, albeit reluctantly.

Good. Maybe he _can_ be taught.

Still, regardless of the reluctance, Methos now has a weapon, and MacLeod doesn’t. He feels his groin stir at that.

Old habits.

“Quite a blade,” he says, letting the weight settle in his hands. Smiling, he admires it, bites his tongue between his teeth, and lets the last traces of Adam Pierson leave him; then, just that fast, he has the katana against MacLeod’s neck.

Methos knows his eyes have changed. He is letting Death out a little, burning with the years of suppression. It has been too long since he had such a powerful man at his mercy, and he can feel his cock hardening despite the honestly abject lesson he wants to teach MacLeod.

MacLeod is less amused. “Not funny, Methos.” He growls, as if he still has power. Methos wants to laugh at him, so fucking _naïve_ , this beautiful, _infuriating_ man. Methos needs him to _live_ and at this rate, he _won’t_.

Methos can’t countenance that.

He uses the blade to push MacLeod, and the man is forced to walk backwards or get his neck sliced open. His eyes blaze at Methos, promising vengeance. Good.

“Not meant to be.” He _needs_ MacLeod to learn this lesson, even if he has to shove it down his throat.

“Not only are you naïve, now you are weaponless.” Methos marvels at the extent of this man’s trust. “How’ve you lived this long?” That was an honest question. Methos has no idea, considering the depth this man is capable of trusting. He _knows_ Methos is 5000 years old and a _survivor_ ; did he think Methos just accidentally survived this long?

“Do you know how many immortals she has killed? Do you want a _list_?” She is a _viper_ among men, and she is _deadly_. MacLeod can’t see it, Methos knows — or, more accurately, he doesn’t _want_ to see it. Just because they had history.

Methos wants to shake his head. If he let every immortal he slept with live, the world would be overrun with evil men and women.

“All right, you’ve made your point.” MacLeod says, attempting to reason, and Methos knows he hasn’t. Knows he hasn’t reached him yet.

“ _Have_ I?” He pushes the blade deeper into MacLeod’s tender skin, debating cutting him, debating whether it would make his cock so hard he won’t be able to finish this.

MacLeod is getting pissed, but he’s still pinned under his own sword and he can’t do anything other than sit there and be pinned, which really, illustrated Methos’s point nicely.

“One day she is _going_ to kill you.” Methos suppresses a shudder at that thought. That such a vile creature would live, and MacLeod would let her take his head, is unbearable.

MacLeod seems to just be waiting for this to be over now, and Methos can’t help press that blade in harder and raise his eyebrow.

MacLeod **will** hear him.

“She’s tried already,” MacLeod grudgingly admits. But defiantly, as if just because she tried once and MacLeod bested her, it was never going to happen again. Stupid naïve _fool_ of a man! Methos wants to kill him himself for his idiocy.

“You’re better with a blade than her, yes.” He was better than Methos with a blade also, but here they were. “You are stronger than her, yes.” MacLeod is holding his eyes and fuming, and Methos is fully hard now. He feels his cock start to leak a little. He is just grateful Adam Pierson loves long floppy sweaters that hide inconvenient erections. “But if you keep letting her walk away, one day she gets lucky and takes your head, _yes_.” Methos would murder her immediately if that happened but the damage would have already been done. And MacLeod doesn’t need to know just how attached Methos has gotten to his stupid Scottish arse.

He really hopes he is getting through to MacLeod because he doesn’t know what else to try anymore.

The protected should not have to coach his protector in how to protect himself!

“Oh I don’t know, maybe she’d stop to gloat like you,” MacLeod says, and before the words register, Methos is being shoved, hard, and falls on his arse on the hard dojo floor, though never taking his eyes off MacLeod. MacLeod is already halfway across the room and Methos thinks, shit, now he’s done it.

“You want to play?” MacLeod is pissed but controlling it; he is however still reaching for a blade and Methos has a moment to try and soften this, remind MacLeod that he is still a friend trying to teach him things, and not someone MacLeod needs to pummel into the ground. Or get serious with his neck.

“Great! You knocked me on my… bum because I made a bad joke. Very macho.” And MacLeod is looking a lot more dangerous than he was a moment ago. He has to remind MacLeod. He deliberately uses Adam’s words, instead of his own sharper ones. Bum indeed. Remind MacLeod. Check him.

He hadn’t planned a sword fight today. He is so hard. The fall has stunned him a little, and a frisson of unease goes through him as he watches MacLeod swing the practice blade without looking away from him.

But he also relishes it. Methos can’t often find immortals he trusts enough to practice his swordplay with, and MacLeod is one of the best. Methos is reasonably sure MacLeod won’t choose to take his head despite being able to, and he will be able to; and that just makes his cock harder.

He focuses MacLeod again to his original point. “If you keep letting her walk away, without even taking a shot? That is very suicidal.” Honestly, the fact that he has to spell it out is ridiculous.

“You _know_ what she was to me.” As if that would stop _her_ from taking MacLeod’s head.

Sentimental chivalrous goat of a fool!

“Yes! And I know what she _is_. A _killer_.” He circles MacLeod. “You _treat_ her like one.” ‘Or else’ goes unsaid. Methos thinks he must be a masochist, because he is reminding MacLeod that he too is a killer, and that he shouldn’t forget that just because they are friends.

And then they are fighting. Methos puts his back into it, not quite showing all his technique but not going easy on MacLeod either. It has been too long since he has tested his mettle against another immortal, especially one as powerful and skilled as MacLeod, and he thanks the Gods that he had perfected fighting while sporting a hard-on long before the pharaohs died out.

Methos is smaller than MacLeod but he is much faster and more devious. MacLeod is a cautious but vicious fighter and Methos pushes himself to fight with a little of Death’s ruthlessness.

“Oh, you used your Faber’s technique.” MacLeod actually smiles at him, but Methos knows better than to let his guard down. He is enjoying himself. More than he cares to say. His cock throbs, trapped in his jeans and rubbing against the zipper.

He can feel his tongue sticking out, and he licks his dry lips and grins at MacLeod.

“Working, isn’t it?” Methos says, just to extend the play a little longer.

Then they are at it again. MacLeod almost has him backed into the door, but Methos recovers and manages to keep him back, but only just.

“Not for long.” MacLeod is a real alpha predator. He knows when his prey is within his grasp, and Methos knows it too, but there’s no way he will give in that easily.

Just then Methos makes a mistake, and MacLeod only needed the one. MacLeod lets him see the fatal cut across his abdomen, gives it a beat just to prove his point, before he swings for Methos’s head and Methos literally has to turn his face away because —

A whooshing sound comes out of his mouth as he feels the blade stop just before cutting him. Methos feels a full-body shudder go through him in real fear, because yet again MacLeod has proven that if he wants Methos’s head, it was his for the taking, and Methos could do nothing to stop him. His cock is seconds from coming while his body shivers under his sweater, from arousal and fear both.

Methos hides the fear expertly from his eyes and turns his face back to MacLeod with a grin, saying self-deprecatingly, to cover his lapse, “I gotta practice more.”

He is really just talking because he is still keenly aware of how their positions have turned. MacLeod is still keeping the sword against his neck and Methos is absolutely not immune. “New guys come along with new moves;” it sounds pathetic even to Methos’s own ears, but he can’t think, his cock is throbbing so hard and he literally has to lean his weight on MacLeod’s sword that he is still gripping as if his life depends on it. He doesn’t try to move away from MacLeod’s sword.

“It’s called _progress_.” MacLeod is smiling and nodding but his eyes are still those of a predator, and when he suddenly slides the sword harder against Methos’s neck, Methos can’t help the gasp that comes out of him, purely sexual and terrified in equal measure. He hasn’t been this vulnerable since Kronos, and MacLeod excites him the same way Kronos had. MacLeod would probably be so pissed if he knew Methos’s train of thoughts but…

Methos knows how to submit to alpha men who threaten his life. He knows how to make a man’s blood run hot, and he is already doing it, completely helplessly, leaning into the blade, showing MacLeod his submission, in his eyes, in his body. He is MacLeod’s to take if he so wishes, his own cock forgotten despite being moments from orgasm. His Master must be appeased first.

He sees the moment MacLeod sees it. The sexuality of it. MacLeod eyes widen, and he glances down but can’t see anything through the sweater, though Methos knows MacLeod is aware he didn’t imagine it.

Methos smiles and lets all the sexual subservience show on his face; he holds MacLeod’s eyes for a heartbeat. It has been years but Methos still knows how to harden a man’s cock with his submission, and how to make him pay attention. Because, no matter what position they are in, Methos has a point and he needs MacLeod to hear it.

If force didn’t get through to him, maybe submission will.

Plus, Methos honestly can’t help it, he is practically on his knees to this man, with a deadly weapon at his neck and MacLeod’s dark piercing eyes dissecting him. He has a limited number of responses for situations like this.

“Well then, get on with it,” and Gods he means so much more than what he is saying. He wants MacLeod badly, but he wants him to hear him more, and live. He can’t make his voice less breathless than it is; he is far too turned on, so he doesn’t even try. Holding MacLeod’s eyes, he lowers his lashes for a second and then locks gazes with MacLeod again: “Before Kristin kills you and your friend.”

The reminder that Richie’s life is also on the line sobers MacLeod, and Methos thinks, _bingo_. He is still holding MacLeod’s eyes and he is honestly moments from dropping to his knees and begging to suck him off, he doesn’t even care if he doesn’t get to come, he just needs to —

Then they both feel it, another immortal, and Methos is quickly getting off his feet, cutting MacLeod off before he can tell Richie his true name because the idiot is just that honest, and excusing himself as fast as he can.

He makes it to the bathroom just in time, dropping to his knees and yanking his zipper down. Two pulls on his ragingly hard cock and he is coming so hard he nearly bites his tongue trying not to scream.

Once he can stop seeing stars, he thinks disgustedly to himself that he is a hypocrite. He lectured MacLeod but how different was he? Give him power and passion, and he is immediately its willing slave. He is just lucky that MacLeod isn’t a man who wallows in enjoyment of another’s pain. He could so easily have been another Kronos. Methos shudders at that thought. It’s worse that he doesn’t know if it’s from longing or foreboding.

Later, he watches MacLeod yet again not take Kristin’s head and he wants to scream.

Fine. If MacLeod won’t, he will. He stalks up behind her.

“Pick it up.” Methos knows he sounds cold. Knows he sounds like Death, and that both MacLeod and Kristin can hear it.

“Who the hell are you?” She spits out while still prostrating herself on the ground. That always did have power over MacLeod. Thank the Gods Methos has known real submission well enough not to be moved by such travesty.

“A man born long before the age of chivalry.” Methos knows she can hear her own death in those words. “Pick. It. Up.” He is breaking his own code here: he stopped killing for anything but survival hundreds of years ago; but this time, he will make an exception.

Kristin pauses just long enough to see that MacLeod won’t be saving her, and knows she is about to die. She lunges at him clumsily, and Methos has a moment to be disgusted by her before he is stabbing into her abdomen, and then taking her head.

MacLeod turns around when he heard the dull thud of her body, and Methos has a moment of weakness and says, “Someone had to.” It is a benediction and forgiveness for MacLeod and he knows it. He walks away and doesn’t watch Methos absorb Kristin.

***

Richie is still sore when he sees Methos and all but runs from ‘Adam’, and Methos has a moment to be grateful that the young immortal likely won’t live long enough to be able to make a play for Methos’s head. For now, MacLeod’s presence is enough to deter Richie, and the young man simply leaves.

Methos asks MacLeod if he could do it again, if he had learned anything, but it seems MacLeod is still married to his notions of who he is, and Methos has a moment to despair. But, well, they are both here, he hasn’t lost a friend and protector, and tomorrow’s problems are not yet here.

Methos doesn’t think MacLeod realizes it, but he didn’t just stop fighting other immortals because he wants to survive. He stopped fighting because he feels close to the edge. MacLeod doesn’t understand yet how long 5000 years is, how long 10,000 is, and just how many lifetimes that boils down to. MacLeod has taken a hundred-plus heads; Methos, on the other hand, is close to five figures. He can’t remember if he has reached 10,000 or more yet, but he knows that with every Quickening, it is getting harder and harder for him to keep his self coming back. His soul is full of people. Evil and good and Methos is afraid he will drown in them one day and not be able to assert his own personality. That is the real reason he has stopped killing.

Taking a murderous raging beast like Kristin into himself hasn’t helped matters at all, and Methos has spent the whole night alternately breaking things in his apartment and meditating when the rage allowed him. His cock won’t shut up, and he has wanked till he was chafing, but with no real release.

How he wishes he was still back, almost on his knees at MacLeod’s feet, begging with his eyes.

If only.

Now he is lying on MacLeod’s sofa, drinking his beer and making idle chitchat about redecorating, while all he wants is —

Methos resolutely shoves that thought away, and plasters on Adam’s face harder over his own. It doesn’t quite fit, and MacLeod can see it. Can see the restless tension and exhaustion thrumming through his body. Methos sighs to himself and takes another swig of his beer. It’s nearly finished, and then he will crawl his way out of Macleod’s sofa and head to —

He doesn’t know where.

Maybe somewhere he could kill someone.

Or fuck someone.

Get fucked _by_ someone.

Or maybe he will just go and try some more meditation.

He looks up to say something to MacLeod but his breath catches.

Some instinct seems to be guiding MacLeod. His eyes are intent, hot, and he watches Methos the same way he had when he was holding a sword to his throat.

Methos is instantly alert, but he forces his body to remain relaxed, not tense up.

It’s long since instinct by now. Kronos had trained him well.

MacLeod stalks over to him slowly, taking his time, letting Methos feel him coming, and Methos has to swallow.

MacLeod leans over him, and puts his hand on Methos’s shoulder, but his thumb presses into Methos’s neck, presses with that heated intent.

“You are not all right.” MacLeod wants him to admit it. Methos wants to snarl at him, and he wants to whimper.

He does neither, and stares into MacLeod’s eyes. “No. I am not. But it will pass.” He wants to want to get up, but that would mean dislodging MacLeod’s grip on him, and Methos doesn’t have that kind of will right now. Not when his life isn’t being threatened.

“I saw something earlier. Would it help you, do you think, for me to see it again?” MacLeod sounds so intent, so serious, that Methos stills. There are few ways to interpret that, but it is very clear which way MacLeod means it. “For me to want to see it again on you.”

“That depends. What did you see?” Because Methos knows better than to fall into this trap, if MacLeod is not ready for something like this.

MacLeod doesn’t say anything for a moment, just looks at him. And as he looks, his finger digs in, just a little, into Methos’s jugular notch; the look in his eyes changes, settling into that apex predator look Methos knows so well from his days with Kronos and all his Masters in between.

He looks at Methos like he wants to own him.

Like he could.

Methos shivers completely helplessly.

When MacLeod speaks, it is softly, but with deadly intensity: “Your submission. Your capitulation to my will.” He enunciates every word, clearly. No hesitation. MacLeod never looks away from his eyes, and he can see the moment Methos wants to give in, wants him to have it. “Will you give me that, Methos?”

And Methos thinks, slightly hysterically, that Amanda must have been a bad influence on MacLeod. He really has to send her some flowers and maybe a 10-karat diamond as a thank you gift, because —

He feels himself dropping, eyes lowering the way they had when his head was threatened earlier, but Methos was never one to give in _easily_ — what fun would that be? — and he can still feel Kristin all over his _skin_ — “Would you know what to do with me, I wonder, Highlander?”

Some parts of Methos are screaming at him; the other parts are only waiting.

It’s **maddening**.

“Say yes and find out.” MacLeod seems to have anticipated some fight from him, and that look in his eyes doesn’t so much as flutter. Methos wants to suck him badly.

Instead he parts his lips and lets his tongue stick out when MacLeod pushes in with his thumb, and Methos watches with pleasure as his eyes darken at such a primal show of exactly what MacLeod wants from him.

This night might not be a total ruin after all.

He debates whether this is insane. He debates whether they can come back from this. No, he thinks, a little drunkenly, but maybe something different, something that makes allowances --

“Yes,” he breathes. “Please.”

He is helpless to stop it from coming out anyway.

At that, MacLeod wraps his whole hand around his neck without ever moving his thumb from his throat notch.

“Now he learns to be polite.”

“I am always polite. Just not always in ways from this time period.” And that actually pauses MacLeod; he gets a thoughtful look on his face, and his eyes concede the point. But his hand tightens.

“I will be sure to consider that next time.” MacLeod is smiling but his eyes are serious. “Now, however…” And MacLeod lifts him by his _neck_ , as if Methos’s weight is nothing to him, equal parts masculine force and threat; and kisses him like he plans to move in and stay a while. All sharp teeth and deep thrusting tongue. It’s a claiming kiss, and a drugging kiss. MacLeod doesn’t hurry, doesn’t pause either, as if kissing another man like he plans to eat him for lunch is normal for him.

Methos really needs to hack Joe’s personal notes on the MacLeod chronicles. He has clearly missed out.

“Take your clothes off for me, Methos.” He keeps saying Methos’s name and the last person to do this while calling him _that name_ had been Kronos. It makes perfect sense in Methos’s head.

He still hasn’t released Methos, however. Instead, he lifts him to his feet by the neck, and Methos is back to feeling their weight difference. Their respective strengths, and how much stronger than him this man is.

“Yes.” He wasn’t given an honorific to use, and he isn’t sure what would please MacLeod, but he shows his eagerness, and refinement, as are MacLeod’s due, as he finally releases his throat. Methos throws a touch of sensuality into his stripping and feels more than hears MacLeod growl a little under his breath.

Methos smiles.

As soon as the last piece of clothing is off, MacLeod is in front of him. Not touching, just letting Methos feel how close he is. Feel the heat emanating from MacLeod’s body. Feel how dressed MacLeod still is, compared to how naked Methos himself is.

His skin prickles.

It finally doesn’t feel like Kristin’s.

When MacLeod grips his neck again, it feels like a finally, and a relief. Methos doesn’t know what to do with that, so he firmly tells himself not to borrow trouble, and leans into the touch.

MacLeod likes that, likes his willingness and his show of trust. Small wonder when Methos keeps so much to his chest. But MacLeod should know by now; Methos had offered his neck to MacLeod. More than once now. This show of trust is nothing compared to that. But MacLeod has never seen the slave inside Methos. Nor had he seen the Master.

Another time, Methos thinks, and lets his eyes flutter shut so he can better enjoy MacLeod’s sword calluses on Methos’s most sensitive skin.

“Drop for me, Methos. On your knees. I want your arse in the air for me, and your face down, between your elbows.” He says this but doesn’t let Methos move; instead, using his hold on Methos’s neck, he firmly lowers the other man to the ground, turning him, and placing Methos’s face on the couch cushions, while his ass instinctively arches against MacLeod’s crotch, as MacLeod goes down with him. Methos feels his cock and balls swinging in the cool air of the room.

Methos has somehow forgotten his hard-on, this whole time, but suddenly that is all he can feel. How heavy it is between his legs, how wet. He must be dripping on MacLeod’s floor.  

It’s the only place MacLeod’s body has touched him, other than the hand on his neck and those drugging kisses. But his erection is unmistakable. Huge and hot under the scratchiness of his trouser fabric. Methos wants nothing more than to be skewered on it.

“Lower, Methos; you want to, and I want you to as well.” And Methos feels his face want to smile and lets himself, lets himself be wanton, as he has been ordered to. Puts his cheek on the leather, arching his whole body into it, hands extended in front of him while his nails dig grooves into the soft leather.

He feels so very open.

MacLeod keeps saying his name, and he has to know what that would do to Methos. He can’t possibly know how long it’s been but — he must see the effect.

“So pretty like this. A part of you was made for this, wasn’t it Methos? Someone trained you well.” A strong hand runs down his spine, feeling the sweat on his back, down every vertebra as it goes, lower, lower please — “That’s it, give me what I want. Let me have you.”

Methos wants to sob for him. Where the hell did MacLeod learn to _be_ like this?  

He was wrong: killing someone tonight, even as messy as he would have had to be with it, would not have quieted this inside him.

He spreads his legs for MacLeod when the other man shuffles a little closer.

Arches his ass more.

Gives.

“I have wanted to see you like this for months.” It is such a quiet admission that Methos almost misses it. MacLeod’s hand has stopped on the up-curve of his ass. It just sits there, possessive. Undeniable.

It wasn’t Amanda, Methos suddenly realizes, it was _Kristin_ who first taught him this. Showed him, albeit in reverse. If MacLeod has submitted himself wholly to her, no wonder he had a hard time killing her.

Methos will teach him better.

“What will you do with me?” He has to ask. He never imagined MacLeod would talk in bed.

“Yes, we do need to talk about that, don’t we?” MacLeod is so thoughtful, looking down on him as if he is already picturing doing things to him. And Methos wants to _know_.

What would the Scot actually want to do with someone like Methos?

What did he consider possession?

“Tell me, should I push you? I have my thoughts but I would like some input from you. I _think_ I know where this is going to go, but I want to give you the chance to stop me.”

“You plan to fuck me,” Methos doesn’t make it a question, there is really no need.

“Oh, I don’t just plan on fucking you, I told you. I want to own you. Just for tonight, since you would run for more than that; but for tonight, I definitely plan to make you understand that you have consented to belong to me.”

Methos licks his suddenly-dry lips. “How do you plan to push me, Highlander?” he asks, and really, MacLeod should have realized by now that Methos only called him that when he wanted a certain kind of attention from MacLeod.

“I want you in my hands. Your life in my hands, your body pliant under me. Your breath, your pleasure, all in my control. You, who values your life over everything else.” MacLeod sounds so calm, as if he isn’t rewriting everything Methos knows about him, but his eyes are burning Methos with their focus. “I want you to know, without a shadow of a doubt, who you gave yourself to tonight and why. And I want you to trust it.

“I want to fuck you, yes. I want to touch you everywhere. Open you for my cock and make you love the pain of it. I want my hands around your throat. I want to choke you, so you _can’t_ put any more of your masks on. I want to see the look on your face when I do it.”

MacLeod seems to have given this some serious thought, because Methos can’t see the MacLeod he knows in this man at all. All he sees are lust and a fierce kind of force emanating from MacLeod, and it’s making Methos’s legs go weak.

“I won’t stop fucking you while I choke you; not when you turn pink for me, or when you turn red, or when your eyes start to flutter. No, and I won’t stop when your body starts to thrash on instinct. You will tighten deliciously around me, I absolutely love that. I will keep fucking you through it, and just as you come, I will let you take one sip of breath so you fly for me, before I don’t let go any more. I will keep fucking you through your orgasm, and when you slow from lack of air, and weaken. and when you stop moving altogether.

“I will fuck your hole as it suddenly relaxes around me; don’t worry, I will plug it nice and tight with my dick, so nothing — embarrassing — leaks out. I will keep fucking you as your body cools, and starts to go stiff, and I will not pause, or look away from your dead blown eyes. I will also not come until I feel your hole grip me on instinct as you gasp back to life, dead eyes coming alive in shock — and realize you _still_ can’t take a single breath. And I will watch your eyes plead with me, to let you live, as I decide which way I want you more, and I fill you with my come. Only when I come will you get the right to draw breath again. How does that sound, mm?”

Methos can’t breathe. His whole body spasms as if he’s experiencing the suffocation already, along with the orgasm, and he whooshes a breath out, eyes slamming shut in the way they only ever had for Kronos.

“Yes,” He didn’t need to ask the moniker anymore. He knows his place and he knows what MacLeod is to him.

Master.

Owner.

MacLeod stares into his eyes, searching for the truth in them, but Methos doesn’t want to lie now, not now. Not now when he is owned, so dangerously, dangerously owned. Even for just right now.

He shivers in equal part arousal and fear.

 _It seems to be a theme_ ; his inner voice says sardonically.

“You know, it occurred to me, some months ago, while lying in bed and touching myself thinking of you,” and Methos can feel his brain stutter at that, “that 5000 years is an awfully long time. A long long time to get fixations and kinks developed. And overcome, get bored with, move on from. A long time to know yourself, to have tried everything twice — hell, five hundred times.

“So I watched you. Watched to see what made you react, what made you have to move.”

“and you perform, for everyone, for yourself. You morph to whatever your character is. _Adam_. And I rarely see Methos in your eyes. He is the one I want tonight. The survivor, the one who has been the master of nations and the whore of legions. You are the one I want in my hands, Methos. Adam… Adam is nice for the public, but Adam isn’t real enough for me. Don’t get me wrong, you built him well. Mild-mannered and deceptive.” Methos thinks MacLeod’s eyes would be dangerous if he could turn his head to see him. “But Adam could never have *survived* the passage of time as you did. Adam —”

“Adam is real,” Methos offers but he knows it’s a token protest.

MacLeod all but snarls at that. “Adam Pierson loved Alexa; Methos loved what Alexa represented to him. You went a little mad with it, but you also gave up far too easily.” Methos wants to snarl but he knows it’s true. “5000 years of determination would not have been slowed by a river, if that determination was hell bent. You said yourself your passion had gone, but see, I didn’t see it. I saw your passions when you were hell bent on teaching _me_ , and your eyes flared every time I threatened you, but you keep coming back for _more_. Kept _pushing_ me, taunting me. Making me _think_.”

“You hide so well. Tonight, you don’t hide from me. That’s what I want.”

Methos closes his eyes and obeys.

\----

Hours later, when the sweat is still cooling on Methos’s back, and he’s completely boneless on the bed, face mushed in MacLeod’s pillow, body still shivering from over-sensation, MacLeod speaks up without prompting.

“It wasn’t Kristin. It was Connor who first showed me this. I was broken, ready to give up, and he showed me that sometimes it is better to put the broken pieces into the hands of someone you trust than to try to put it together by yourself.” MacLeod’s hands are still petting him. Slow methodical up- and down-strokes over his hair, his shoulders, his back, the curve of his ass. It’s completely drugging and Methos can’t even turn over or protest more than the involuntary purrs coming out of his throat. He will be embarrassed about it tomorrow, he thinks. Or maybe not.

“Kristin perverted it. She wanted me under her thumb, and in the end that is why I left, for all that I loved her and wanted to give her everything.” MacLeod sounds thoughtful, but like it is an old realization, not a new one. “I suspect some people were not made to be under another’s thumb forever.” And Methos can’t help but think of Kronos. Think of his devotion to the man, and later his inescapable helplessness. In the end, they had been a caricature of themselves, Kronos with the desire to control Methos more every day, while Methos longed for freedom and the allowance of change. Longed for a Master with an open fist so he could be made to fly back to him on his own accord. Kronos never understood that desire, only the desire to crush everything under his boot.

Methos wonders if those 500 years in the well allowed Kronos the time to reflect on all the things that went wrong with them. He knows one day Kronos will find him again, and on that day, Methos will have his answer.

He wonders if MacLeod would still be able to touch him so gently if he knew the truth about Methos’s history.

Somehow Methos doubts it.

All the more reason to not allow himself to sink into MacLeod, to wallow in this.

It will be gone soon enough.


End file.
